


in the absence of hope

by whereismygarden



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Character Study, Gen, Pre-Relationship, Recovery, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 22:03:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11217147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereismygarden/pseuds/whereismygarden
Summary: The Rogue One crew make it off Scarif alive, only to learn the fleet doesn't have the plans. Cassian finally breaks.Cassian-centric, set in the time between the battle of Scarif and the trio bringing the Death Star plans to the Rebellion. Pre-ship Cassian/Jyn/Bodhi if you squint real hard.





	in the absence of hope

**Author's Note:**

> No violence but some descriptions of blood, non-sexualized nudity.

There’s not much to say, nor time to say it in, when it comes down to the end, Cassian finds. It’s back down to the same group that left Jedha together, minus K-2. Baze is packing bandages around Chirrut’s gut; the monk’s breathing is shallow and fast. Bodhi, hands on the controls, face blank, has a coating of red liquid and soot covering him from head to foot. Cassian knows from experience that that combination of misted viscera and black dust comes from having someone blown apart as they stand right next to you. Jyn is trying to do something about the wounds in Cassian’s side, hands shaking and eyes brimming over with tears that she doesn’t acknowledge.

 

His vision is sliding in and out of focus, but it hardly matters, because the view from the shuttle window is turning to pure white. The shuttle rocks in the gravitational waves Scarif is emitting, and Cassian slips into unconsciousness before everything stretches out into hyperspace.

 

He wakes up in a familiar style of bunk, narrow mattress covered in an easily-sterilized sheet that is too slippery to be comfortable. The salty scent of blood and bacta permeates the air, and though he can see ventilation grates when his eyes flutter, the air is far too humid for them to be anywhere but Yavin 4.

 

The infirmary should be more crowded, is his first thought, but cold reason catches up quickly. They were lucky, unnaturally so, that they had gotten off the ground and off planet. The rest of the fleet’s injured would be in shipboard infirmaries. The bacta tanks don’t currently hold anyone, but the smell tells Cassian that they were open recently. There’s a tender stiffness to his abdomen, and a slight humid clamminess, which signify a bacta-soaked bandage over his wounds.

 

He turns his head: to his right, propped up in examination chairs rather than in beds, are Jyn and Bodhi. Jyn is still windswept and with grazes on her face: someone’s put two staples near her jaw, but gotten no closer than that. Her hands are still clenched into fists, but she is asleep, eyes flickering under closed lids. Bodhi is cleaned up: there are traces of dried blood on his neck and in his hair, but someone’s given him clean clothes and let him wash. He’s sleeping even more fitfully than Jyn, head twitching and hands shaking through his dream.

 

“Hey,” he says, levering himself up onto his elbows. He’s in a loose hospital shirt, but still in the trousers he’s been wearing for a few days now. Someone cleaned the wound area and nothing else, judging by the sand, salt, and ash he can still feel on his face. There’s a series of beeps and a medical attendant droid glides in, extending its diagnostic tools on prehensile arms.

 

“Captain Andor,” it says. “Please be still and allow me to examine your eyes, heart, and lungs.”

 

Cassian squints against its light when it shines it into his eyes, and allows the soft, semi-porous pad that senses his heartrate and lung strength to be placed against his chest. The droid chirps out a positive ‘all steady’ sound, and slides back on its tracks to move over to Jyn and Bodhi.

 

Jyn wakes with a start, hands reaching for a blaster or baton that aren’t there. “Please allow me to examine you,” the droid says. Jyn settles, and looks over at him, the strain around her eyes lessening fractionally.

 

“You’re awake,” she observes. “I couldn’t stabilize you on the ship, we thought you might not make it. Chirrut was even worse.” Her hand rises to her neck, to fiddle with the crystal she wears.

 

“I made it,” he says, and sits fully upright. “Are there orders left for me?” he asks the droid. It gives a negative beep.

 

“No, Captain Andor. The base, if I may editorialize, is in a state of great tension and anticipation.” It shines its laser into Jyn’s eye and makes a pleased sound. “Pupil response normal.”

 

“I’m fine,” Jyn says with a scowl. The droid makes a doubtful noise.

 

“Your teeth bear more wear than typical for someone your age,” it informs her, angling its light to look more closely.

 

Cassian stands and waits a moment for his blood pressure to adjust, then leaves the infirmary.

 

He makes for General Draven’s office, knocking and opening the door without waiting for an answer. The general looks like he hasn’t slept since Cassian last saw him.

 

“Captain Andor,” he says, and brusquely indicates a chair. Cassian sits, grateful for it. His gut still twinges and stings, and he’s sore from head to foot. “I should dress you down and demote you, but that would be a waste of resources.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Cassian replies. That he was right to spare Galen, to steal the shuttle and make for Scarif, is plain to everyone in the room, but they still have to get around the fact that he deserted. It would have been easier if they had died with the rest of the invasion, at least for Draven’s personnel management.

 

“We don’t know what the survival rate for Imperial troops is, or on transmitted data,” Draven says, fingers flicking over his holopad. “So you’re off infiltration, no going anywhere any Imperial official might see your face.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Cassian says automatically, then the words sink in. “What is my assignment now?”

 

“You don’t have one yet,” Draven says, sounding distracted. “Either base work or recruiting deep in the Outer Rim and Rebel sympathizer regions.”

 

“What about the mission to destroy the Death Star? Should we report to the people planning that attack? Bodhi could well have more information—“

 

“There’s no plan in place,” Draven interrupts. “We don’t have the plans. The ship they were likely on fell into Imperial hands.” He starts typing on his holopad. “Dismissed, Captain Andor.”

 

Cassian can’t move for a moment, head spinning. The ache in his gut pulses, and he gets to his feet with his vision fading in and out in splotchy grey.

 

He stumbles back into the infirmary, breath shallow, feeling the malaise of a failed mission settle across his shoulders, greater and more overwhelming than anything before. He’s killed allies to maintain cover, lied to the faces of people he respects, left soldiers to die rather than be captured himself. He did all of it in the service of the Rebellion, and it was all worth it. The freedom of the galaxy was worth his soul. But what happened on Scarif—the hundreds of lives lost—was on a scope he can’t process.

 

Jyn and Bodhi are awake, and speaking together. Bodhi looks even more ashen than before. Jyn turns when Cassian walks in, eyes haunted dark pits in her face.

 

“While you were gone,” she says, voice raspy and uneven, and then stops. She clutches at the ragged edges of her hair and breathes in shakily.

 

“There was a transmission,” Bodhi says softly. “The droid, GM-14, it got the message, since the medical droids get alerts on major disasters when the base is pinged.” Cassian is familiar with the practice: the Rebellion operates in cells when under cover, but inside bases, integration of response is vital. It’s a system the Old Republic used, that the Empire uses, and there’s no reason to not alert the medical systems in case of disasters.

 

“They’ve used it again,” Jyn says, and sits forward so that her face is hidden against her knees, fingers tight in her hair.

 

“Alderaan,” Bodhi says, and the word hangs in the air. Cassian tastes the sand and salt still on his lips and bile rises in his throat. He leans forward and retches onto the floor, throat burning. There’s nothing but a few strings of pale bile in his stomach, but it twists into a hard knot nevertheless. Alderaan was more densely populated than Jedha and Scarif combined: he doesn’t want it to happen, but his brain starts running numbers anyway, trying to assess the loss. A few million on Jedha, far less on Scarif (and mostly Imperial), but Alderaan was a core world. At least a billion inhabitants, orbiting a young yellow star that gave it mild seasons and cool, vast oceans.

 

“This means…” Cassian tries to say, but his lips feel numb and the words buzz like static. “They won’t pretend anymore. The Senate.” It makes sense, that when they finished their planet killer they would move right into complete tyranny, but there should be a week of waiting. A week to prepare a last stand.

 

“Come on,” Jyn says eventually, rises and takes him by the elbow. Her fingers are cold even through his shirt. “We need to clean up.”

 

Bodhi takes Cassian’s other side and they march him into the refresher room, which is even more humid and hot than the rest of the base. Jyn sits down on a bench and starts taking off her boots and jacket. Cassian turns one of the jets onto cold and stands under it fully clothed, waiting for the icy, high-pressure water to have an impact he can feel. He feels similar to how he felt the first time he shot someone up close. He had an archaic projectile pistol and the Imperial bureaucrat’s brains had gone everywhere. That had felt the same, down to the strange ache in his jaw and the thin layer separating his mind from his body.

 

Eventually he feels Bodhi tug him out of his shirt and his ragged boots and trousers, and Jyn’s arm reaches past him to adjust the temperature of the spray. He lets them move his body a little, then Jyn slaps him hard across the face.

 

“Cassian! Wake up!” The slap hurts, and the pain breaks through a little bit. He opens his eyes a little and looks at her. The grime in her hair is rinsing out slowly, sliding down her face and the rest of her body. He shakes his head at her.

 

“There’s no point. There’s no chance now.”

 

Jyn makes a disdainful noise and spits water onto the shower floor. Then she takes a bottle of cleaner and pours some over his head.

 

“Wash your hair, Cassian,” she orders. “I know you’re tired, but it isn’t over. I know we were all ready to die, but you’re not dead. We lived! You can’t act like you’re dead, it’s not fair to us!” With that, she starts working suds into her own filthy hair. Cassian manages to raise a hand and clean some of the sand from his hair, the feeling returning to his cold-numbed skin in prickles and waves.

 

“Think of it this way,” Bodhi says. “What we did was nearly impossible. Someone else will do the nearly impossible as well. That is how the Rebellion continues.”

 

Cassian can’t really believe them, not yet, but the shivery, cold-stomach feeling of having survived is starting to light up his blood at last, through the exhaustion and despair. He rinses his hair and realizes that Jyn has a long smear of machine oil down her leg that she can’t bend to reach, and that Bodhi has little particles of silica and ash driven into the skin of his upper back. So he kneels down and helps scrub the grime from Jyn’s leg, and pick out the bits of grit from Bodhi’s back.

 

There’s something about standing in the warm water among friends, washing the dirt of Scarif down to the shower floor, washing off the blood and sweat until the iron tang in the air fades, that makes Cassian believe, if not in hope, then in life. Bodhi’s dark hair, still leaching blood and grime, falls in a wet tangle down his back, and Jyn’s eyelashes drip tiny beads of water onto her sun- and windburned cheeks. Cassian takes a deep breath of warm air, feeling a heavy curl of bright longing wrap itself around the black despair that is the loss of Alderaan and put some cracks into it. He doesn’t believe in hope, but they’re still hidden here on Yavin, alive, and he believes in life. He reaches out to draw Jyn and Bodhi closer to himself, the dirty water swirling around their feet, and grips with the strength he has left. They squeeze his hands back. Someone else will have to provide the hope, but they still have some strength.


End file.
